The Lovers Read online

  Suddenly she was out of control, her hands shaking, teeth chattering, her body torn with deep, racking sobs. Cavanagh put his arm around her and held her close, crooning to her:

  ‘. . . Easy now! Easy! It was only a dream. It’s over and gone. Your brother’s at rest . . .’

  Her panic subsided slowly. When, finally she was calm again, Cavanagh poured coffee from the thermos and steadied her hand as she held it to her lips. He wondered – not at all irrelevantly – what Lou Molloy would do, say or think if he came upon them now. Giulia Farnese gave voice to the same thought.

  ‘Look at me! I’m a mess. What would Lou think if he saw me now?’

  Cavanagh gave a small, humourless laugh.

  ‘He’d probably try to punch me in the nose.’

  ‘And would you let him do that?’

  ‘Let’s say I’d try very hard to stop him; but what would the Princess Giulia Farnese be doing during the fight?’

  A mischievous smile twitched at the corners of her mouth.

  ‘I’m not sure. It would depend on who was winning. But I would stay until the end so I could patch you up. I’d owe you that at least, after what you’ve done for me tonight.’

  ‘You owe me nothing. I’m glad I was here to help.’

  ‘Aunt Lucietta told me you were good value. I have to confess I didn’t believe her at first. She gets crushes on half the young men she meets. I don’t blame her. She’s been widowed a long time, and in the last days of the war she lost a lover who was very dear to her. My father and the rest of the family didn’t approve of him, because, although he came from an old and noble family, he joined the Communist Party and took to the hills with one of their partisan groups. The Germans captured him and he died under Gestapo interrogation. That’s why Aunt Lucietta is so critical about Vatican policies and some of the things my father is involved in . . .’ She broke off abruptly. ‘But this is old history, our history; it has nothing to do with you. Tell me about yourself. What brought you to Europe? What will you do when this summer is over?’

  ‘I’ll put on my pack and go wandering again, picking up jobs as I go. I’ve given myself a year before I settle down.’

  ‘To what?’

  ‘To the law, which is what I’ve been trained for.’

  ‘I can’t imagine you stuck in some stuffy office surrounded by briefs and books!’

  ‘Frankly, neither can I; but there is another side to the question. We’re just coming out of one of the most lawless periods in world history. Sooner or later, if we’re to become half-way human again, the rule of law has to prevail. We have to be able to settle disputes without killing each other, make bargains that will hold, defend the rights of people who have neither the strength nor the knowledge to do it themselves. I’d like to find a role for myself in that process; but before I do I have to understand history, which I’m rediscovering every day, and the present, which is why I’m working on languages and people, the idioms of their lives.’

  ‘Is that what you’re doing now? Working on me?’

  ‘This isn’t work. It’s pleasure. My only regret is . . .’

  He broke off in mid sentence.

  ‘Go on. Say it!’

  ‘My only regret,’ he told her gravely, ‘is that the pleasure has to be brief and is constantly curtailed by social circumstances . . . and if that sounds impertinent, I trust the Principessa will forgive me.’

  ‘Please don’t call me Principessa.’

  ‘Courtesy demands it.’

  ‘Not here. Not now.’

  ‘What should I call you then?’

  ‘Giulia. That’s my name, after all!’

  ‘Giulia.’ The word tasted sweet on his tongue. ‘Giulia la Bella. Strange isn’t it? I know more about your ancestor than I do about you.’

  ‘Would you believe I hate her?’

  ‘For God’s sake, why?’

  ‘Because even after all these centuries I live in her shadow. She dominates my whole life. After my brother was killed, all my father’s hopes and ambitions for the family were centred on me. When that first Giulia became the mistress of the Borgia Pope, she became the patroness and protector of the whole family. My father dreams the same role for me!’

  ‘That’s a hell of a load to carry!’

  ‘Sometimes I’d like to cast it off and disappear – just like Tolvier!’

  ‘Why don’t you?’

  ‘Where would I run? To a garret in Paris?’

  ‘Your father, what does he say about all this?’

  ‘Nothing. He takes my duty for granted, as he takes everything else in his history and his life. This marriage, for instance; it is not by his standards an ideal one, but in today’s world it is much better than any European union that could be arranged. Lou is rich. He is well connected politically in the United States, he is a friend of the man they call the American Pope, Cardinal Spellman, who is himself a close friend of Papa Pio . . . Papa Pio will confer a papal decoration on Lou before we are married. So for today it’s a very good arrangement.’

  ‘And for tomorrow?’

  ‘For tomorrow there are other possible arrangements. There will be no divorce, but if I am unhappy I may take a lover. Lou himself most certainly would – as he does now.’

  Cavanagh stared at her in amazement. For the boy from ‘down-under’, the respectable lace-curtain Irish Catholic, whose modest fortunes were founded on the gold fields of Ballarat and a string of country pubs, all this was history reenacted in technicolor. But far beyond the surprise was a sense of pathos and of waste. He expressed it in a single, blunt statement.

  ‘So far I’ve heard duty and money and arrangements; but nothing about love.’

  ‘Because love’s a private matter and it’s different with every man and woman. Sometimes it comes soon, sometimes late. Sometimes it wears out quickly. In the lucky ones it lasts a lifetime.’

  ‘And for Giulia Farnese?’

  ‘She doesn’t know enough yet to discuss it.’

  ‘That’s a great pity.’

  ‘But you, Mr Cavanagh, will not presume to offer her pity.’

  ‘I beg your pardon, Principessa. I should know better. Lou Molloy read me a long lecture about how I was expected to behave in noble company.’

  ‘I’ll assure him you have behaved impeccably.’

  ‘Better you didn’t.’ Cavanagh gave her a crooked Irish grin. ‘He might get the wrong idea.’

  ‘In what sense?’

  ‘He might think his lady and I have something to hide.’

  She was smiling now, feline and conspiratorial, Giulia the Beautiful, straight out of the history books.

  ‘But we do! Lou has never seen me as you saw me tonight. I wouldn’t want him to either. So, I have to trust you not to tell him or anyone else.’

  ‘There would be no reason to tell – unless you told him first and he asked me a direct question. I won’t lie for you; but I certainly won’t gossip either.’

  ‘If you did, we would become enemies. I want us to be friends, Cavanagh.’

  ‘Then that’s another secret that has to be kept, Giulia mia.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I’m paid to be a servant. I made that contract with Molloy. My role, like yours, is fixed. Of course we can be friends, but it’s better for everyone’s peace of mind if we let the service signify the friendship.’

  ‘You talk like a Jesuit.’

  ‘I was trained by them.’

  ‘Are you afraid of Molloy?’

  ‘No. He employs me. He doesn’t own me. The worst he can do is fire me.’

  ‘Are you afraid of me?’

  ‘No; but I am afraid of myself. A man could break his heart and his neck reaching too high for forbidden fruit.’

  ‘How will you know whether it’s too high unless you stretch or jump for it?’

  ‘Because I can measure what you’re marrying: money, power, position, experience. I can’t match Molloy in any of those things.’

  ‘Would
you want to match him, Cavanagh?’

  ‘One day I might just be mad enough.’

  ‘I wonder how love will happen to you?’

  He laid his large hand over hers, ready to withdraw in an instant. She made no movement, uttered no word of protest as he answered her.

  ‘For me I think it will be a swift thing, a risky one too perhaps; but it will be all or nothing, a wild ride to the edge of the world and back.’ He gave a small, rueful laugh. ‘So be warned, my little Princess, don’t tease the sleeping tiger . . . Now it’s time you were in bed. I have a watch to keep and you’re very disturbing company.’

  He raised her imprisoned hand to his lips and then released it. She sat silent a long moment, studying his face, tracing the structure of it with the tip of her finger. Then she said very softly:

  ‘Some woman trained you well, Cavanagh.’

  ‘There was a house full of ’em! My mother and three sisters. Even my father, who was no pussycat, kept his shoes wiped and his temper under control and his language polished in their living-room. So yes, you might say I’ve been woman-trained. Maybe you’ll feel moved to write me a letter of reference when the summer is over.’

  ‘You’re a clown, Cavanagh.’

  ‘That’s what Molloy called me. I hope, before summer’s end, you’ll find a better name.’

  ‘I’ll keep thinking, I promise . . .’

  She leaned forward, kissed him lightly on the lips then slid sideways out of the chair to avoid any answering embrace. Instantly, she was the old Giulia, closed, imperious, cold as moonlight. Only the smile in her eyes betrayed her.

  ‘The coffee was most welcome, Mr Cavanagh, the talk most instructive and your manners are beyond reproach.’

  ‘My simple duty, Principessa – and my great pleasure also.’

  He gave her an ironic salute and watched her walk barefoot down the companionway to the deck. When he turned back to the chart-table he saw that she had left her handkerchief, a small wisp of cambric and lace. He touched it to his lips, then folded it carefully and buttoned it into the pocket of his shirt. A man could be hanged on evidence like that – or he could be moved to dance a jig and shout canticles of joy. Bryan de Courcy Cavanagh checked the compass heading and the radar screen, then tuned into the radio programme from Nice on which Charles Trenet was singing ‘La Mer’ . . . it seemed a nice, romantic postscript to a very enigmatic encounter.

  It was bright morning when they made the approach to Elba. Hadjidakis was at the helm. Molloy and Farnese stood beside him, studying the configuration of the northern coastline, the traffic of fishermen and ferries across the seven-mile channel between the island the mainland port of Piombino.

  Their talk was technical: of water supplies and power sources, the planned extension of the single island airstrip, the range of local agriculture, the sources of tourist traffic from the Ligurian coast and the cities of Tuscany.

  Cavanagh, off watch and off duty, was standing in the prow of the vessel, sketching the foothills and the peak of Monte Capanne, the marching cypresses which wound about the slopes, and the patterns of vineyards and olive groves and vegetable plots and the dark shadows of the pinewoods near the shore. Over on the mainland had lived the Etruscans, a serene and hedonistic people, whose frescoed tombs still stood among the wheat fields. Their city was called Populonia, and there they smelted the iron ore which their galleys brought from Elba. There was smelting on the island too and the Greek traders called it Aethalia, the smoking place, because of the vapours from the kilns . . . On the mountain he was sketching there were deposits of gemstones: beryl and tourmaline and garnet which the ancients fashioned into ornaments.

  Galeazzi stood a pace away, watching him work, making his own reminiscent commentary . . .

  ‘There has always been a boat-building industry here and on the mainland, and the fishing is good: sardines and anchovies and tuna . . . But these resources are all limited and rapidly diminishing, so the economic future will depend more and more on tourism. I have recommended to Molloy and Farnese that they make their first venture here, because there is a good substructure already in existence: ferry services from Livorno, Piombino and Genoa, a good coastal highway on the mainland and a parallel railway system. On the island there is property available; freehold and leasehold. There are shipyards in Spezia and Livorno which already are setting up for pleasure craft. Also there are places which can be developed as tourist attractions; Napoleon’s Villa, the local museum, the old Spanish fort, sites for undersea exploration. We know that there are several ancient wrecks around the coastline. My own son has dived here and brought up a few bronze pieces and fragments of pottery . . . I have advised both Molloy and Farnese that they should establish themselves on the south of the island where the development is still sparse, and where the harbourage for small craft would be much safer . . . I hope they will listen to me . . .’

  A comment seemed to be called for; Cavanagh tried to keep it strictly neutral.

  ‘I can’t speak for Prince Farnese; but I’m sure Mr Molloy will be very responsive to your advice. He can be brusque and blunt, but he listens carefully and doesn’t miss too many details.’

  ‘He certainly knows his own mind – and speaks it!’ Galeazzi’s comment was as neutral as Cavanagh’s. ‘That is, of course, the strength and the weakness of Americans. In business they are both thorough and ruthless. In other matters like diplomacy and social relationships they often lack a certain acuteness of perception, an awareness of nuances . . .’

  The words he used were sottigliezze and sfumature. Cavanagh pondered them for a moment and then realised that, as a man from the new world, he was as much under fire as Molloy. So, coolly at first, then with increasing eloquence he made his speech for the defence.

  ‘With great respect sir, I suggest you misread all of us who come from migrant societies. My country is even younger than Mr Molloy’s. It is just as large as the United States, but there are only twelve million people in it. It is potentially very rich, but it holds both threats and promises for the future . . . You have to understand something about migrant societies. Across their history there lies a fault-line, a steep escarpment which separates them from the physical and spiritual homeland of their ancestors, and effectively prevents their return to it. The continuity of their history is broken. It can never be wholly restored. Take me for instance. Like Mr Molloy I have Irish forebears, but I am Australian, born and bred. I am a Catholic, but of a special kind, not French, not Roman, part Irish, yes, but not wholly that either. I’ve come here of my own volition to re-establish for myself some of the continuities. I come with a reasonably prepared mind. At this moment, I am speaking your language, I am not asking you to speak mine. But when you talk of “subtleties” and “nuances”, of course, you are right. I miss many of them. I am like the Dorian Greek making his first visit to Athens or Alexandria. More appropriately perhaps, I am a Roman, come from the confines of the Empire to Rome itself . . . I’m not explaining myself very well, but . . .’

  ‘On the contrary, my dear Cavanagh,’ Galeazzi encouraged him cheerfully, ‘I find you a most eloquent advocate, and your points are well taken. Far from belittling your background, I confess myself more and more impressed by it. I hope you are giving some thought to the suggestions I made about your future career?’

  ‘Yes sir, I am. But there’s the whole of summer to run yet. I’m enjoying myself too much to think beyond that.’

  ‘Bravo! That’s exactly as it should be.’ The Countess moved in to join them, grasping Cavanagh’s arm to steady herself as the Salamandra rolled in the wash of a passing ferry. Galeazzi asked:

  ‘Where’s Giulia? She’s missing all this.’

  ‘She’s resting. She had a disturbed night. Miss Pritchard has served her breakfast in the cabin.’

  ‘She’s not ill, I trust?’ It was Cavanagh’s question.

  ‘No, Mr Cavanagh.’ The Countess gave him a bright and tolerant smile. ‘She is a princess. She can be upset
even by a rose-petal in her bed.’ Then she addressed herself to Galeazzi . . . ‘Dear God, Enrico! This place brings back memories for me! I came here with my husband when we were first married, thirty-five years ago. He had rented a big house with a park, near the Villa Napoleone, and we used to drive all over the island in an open carriage with two dapple-grey horses. . . . Later, during the war, I used to meet my Corrado here. He would come across from the mainland with one of the sardine fishermen, working the nets with them. At night he would change his clothes and come up to join me for dinner and stay the night. It was a terrible risk, but none of the island folk ever betrayed us. Once I made the trip back with him. We were dropped off at night on a deserted beach and had to walk five miles before dawn to make a rendezvous with the partisans . . . I know you didn’t approve of him Enrico, but he was a brave and noble man and I loved him very much.’

  ‘I have never denied that, Lucietta.’ Galeazzi laid a protective arm around her shoulders. ‘Your loss was ours too – but ours was the greater. The Church and the Democrats and this new Italy we are trying to build, were all damaged when people like Corrado joined the Communists. I will go further and confess to you that we deserved to lose them because they felt themselves betrayed by politicians and prelates and diplomats and time-servers, fickle as weather-cocks. I think – though I cannot say it publicly – that the Vatican is making a huge mistake by mounting a confessional vote against the Communists. I know all the fears they have, I know all the financial and political pressures they are under, but if democracy means anything, if religion means anything, it means making a free choice – this party or that, faith or unfaith . . .’

  ‘I wish,’ the Countess was near to tears. ‘I wish so much, Enrico, you had said this a long time ago!’

  Cavanagh was embarrassed and made a stumbling excuse to withdraw from the group. Galeazzi damped a surprisingly firm grip on his forearm and commanded him to stay.

  ‘There is no need to be embarrassed. We are a dramatic people. We love an audience. Consider this as part of your European education. Lucietta means that I could have saved her much heartache if I had been more publicly supportive of her love affair with Corrado, or even more publicly respectful of his memory. She’s right of course . . . But, my dear Lucietta, there were then and there are now, mitigating circumstances.’